Daemons on Deck
by ShapeShiftersandFire
Summary: Serin Osman has a secret. Miranda Keyes's dæmon doesn't like his name. BB chose not to have one; Cortana called hers Rickett. These and others: An ongoing series of short stories about the Halo characters and their dæmons.
1. Boxer

Boxer: Storson taught her how to box. She wasn't very good at it.

* * *

Storson somehow manages to convince her to get into a practice boxing match.

She doesn't agree to it at first—this has only been a thing between the two of them, a sort of in-joke, as it were, that he taught her to box to being with—but she eventually lets him talk her into it, and it's only through research done himself while she makes dinner that she finds herself at a little boxing studio in an area of town she's never been to.

She gets odd glances from other patrons when she walks in; it's not because they don't see women often, but because they don't see women like her often. Or at all, really. They can tell just by looking at her that she doesn't belong here. She's too stiff, too uncomfortable, and Storson expected this when it came to leaving Ellen's comfort zone. She's an academic, not an athlete.

 _Oh, bull_ , Storson says, rather crudely. _You ran cross country in high school._

Ellen shoots him a glare while he smirks at her. She doesn't answer.

The smirk stays on his face as he shuffles ahead of her, toward the center practice ring where a burly red-haired man she assumes is the instructor and his current student are just finishing up. Ellen reluctantly follows him, wondering why she ever let her daemon talk her into this.

She needs to learn to say no to herself every once in a while.

They get to the base of the ring just as the instructor and his student finish up their last conversation and the student climbs out of the ring. The instructor wipes his brow on the back of his arm and climbs out of the ring. Ellen and Storson shuffle back to give him room; her daemon stands up and bounces gently in excitement while Ellen stands awkwardly and feels her hands grow clammy. She's not sure she wants to go through with this.

 _You've already made the appointment,_ Storson reminds her, with a touch of smugness that he managed to convince her to do so. _It's a little late to cancel now._

Ellen glowers, but says nothing. Her mouth has gone dry; if she tries to say anything, she'll stumble over her words and give Storson just another reason to mock her. Her heart races with fear and excitement as the instruction approaches them with a smile that fades into curiosity when he sees the kangaroo perched excitedly at her side. The look doesn't last long before it gives way to a smile.

"An interesting daemon you've got there, lass," he says. He doesn't quite have an accent, though the last word of his sentence seems to lend to one. "As strange as it sounds, in all my years of boxing, I don't think I've seen very many kangaroos." He laughs, his own daemon, a ring-tailed lemur, winding about his shoulders with an interested stare at Storson. "Ellen, yes?"

Her response is a non-verbal nod. Her mouth is too dry for her to say very much of anything.

Beside her, Storson flicks an ear and looks up. _Am I allowed to introduce myself or are we sticking to the bonded human-daemon conversation rule as usual?_

She doesn't have as much heart to glare at him this time as any other. She sighs reluctantly, relieved to feel some moisture coming back into her mouth and nods. _If you must._

"And Storson," her daemon adds, rather boldly.

The trainer grins and laughs. "And a spunky one at that!" He extends his hand out to her; she takes it. "Luke Garrot," he introduces himself. "Nice to meet you."

Ellen nods again, mouth still too dry to reciprocate the feeling verbally.

Luke claps her on the shoulder. "Don't be nervous. You'll do fine." He turns and waves for her to follow him to a rack on the adjacent wall; Ellen has to take a handful of Storon's fur to keep herself steady. Luke, meanwhile, turns to small talk, and Ellen's grateful for it. "How much boxing experience have you had, lass?"

"Not very much," she says, which is true. She and Storson have only ever boxed as a casual past time. "Storson taught me some."

"Really?" Luke turns around to Storson with raised eyebrows and his daemon chirps curiously. "Well, I can't say I've ever heard of a daemon teaching their counterpart to box," he says, smiling now as he looks Storson up and down, "but with a daemon like yours, I'm not too surprised. Kangaroos are some of the best boxers in the animal world." He nods approvingly. "He's a good partner. Perhaps you'd care to have a sparring session with a fellow human?"

Ellen rolls one shoulder. "Let's start with the basics first."

"Alright." Luke pulls a couple of white wraps down from a box on the top shelf of the rack and tosses them to Ellen, then unwraps one of the navy blue ones around his own hands. "These are hands wraps," he says, "one of the ways we keep our hands safe in the ring. Go ahead and unroll them all the way and I'll show you how to wrap them."

Ellen does just that, Storson looking on with attentive ears and bright eyes. She feels his excitement racing through her. He's more excited about this than she is. "Now what?"

Luke motions to the loop at the end of the wrap. "That goes around your thumb. There, just like that. Now you're going to wrap it behind your hand, at a slight angle, good, and come around two or three times. Good." He stops her then, and explains: "This is to stabilize your hand. If you start the other way, and some do, the wrap will slide off when you punch. You'll risk hurting yourself."

She makes a mental note of it.

"Now, come up and around your knuckles two or three times, there you go-no, come up over your knuckles more. Good. Come back down and around, just like that. Now do that again in the opposite direction, and come down around your wrist again, there, and you'll start wrapping between each of your fingers. Okay, come down around your wrist again, and come up, and now wrap around your fingers again, that'll keep that wrap and your knuckles stable. Excellent. Come around the back of your hand and wrap the rest around your wrist. Good."

By the end, Ellen's head is spinning. She'll need some practice before she can do it alone.

 _At least you're admitting it,_ Storson says, and earns a glower from Ellen.

She starts with the second wrap, just the way Luke showed her, and successfully secures it.

"Excellent," Luke says. "Now take this pair of gloves and follow me to the ring."

Ellen is overly self-conscious as she climbs into the ring without Storson; the other patrons have their eyes on her, the academic. She rolls her shoulders.

"Relax," Luke tells her. "Ignore them. Focus on me."

She exhales. _All right._ "What basics are we starting with?"

A smile appears on Luke's face and Ellen feels Storson smirking at her. She looks over too late as her daemon and Luke's converse in the silent language of daemons and curses. _Damn it, Storson, what are you telling her?_

Storson doesn't respond; he continues to smirk. The lemur clambers back up onto Luke's shoulder and shares whatever information Storson gave.

"I'd like to see what you daemon taught you."

And the blood drains from Ellen's face. She's never boxed with Storson in public, in front of anyone, even in her own living room. No one's ever seen her box with him, and she hasn't been in any hurry to show her skills off. _Fantastic._ But she shrugs her shoulders, pretending it's no big deal. "If I must." She can't help shooting a glare at Storson as she moves in on Luke.

What she demonstrates is a modified version of kangaroo boxing. She's got no tail to lean back on, so she has to kick with one leg, which she realizes now is a serious disadvantage with someone as experienced as Luke; she's able to get some half-closed-fist swipes in at his face, and she's able to avoid Luke's blows by leaning back and to the side, not as drastic as Storson does. It's enough to save her face for the time being.

Luke soon enough calls off the session and Ellen steps back with relief. She feels the eyes of resting patrons on her; she doesn't look at them. She keeps her eyes on Luke, who wipes his forehead on the back of his arm.

"Impressive," he says. "I can now say I've met someone who can box like a kangaroo. Storson did a good job."

Ellen smiles, feeling her face burn. "Don't give him too much credit. He'll never let me hear the end of it." She glances over at her daemon. Sure enough, he's smiling as widely as a 'roo can and looking as proud of himself as he is of Ellen. "What now?" She's feeling winded already. This is nothing like the cross country she used to run.

" _Now_ we'll start with the basics of human boxing."

What follows is an in-depth lesson in foot positioning, hand positioning, and a series of drills that teaches Ellen the right way to punch. It's a long, grueling lesson, but after a while, Ellen feels that she's got a decent enough handle on human boxing to be able to hold her own in a sparring match and Luke agrees. Storson hops excitedly at the prospect while Luke leaves the ring and calls over one of his other, more advanced students. The man, an inch or two taller than Ellen, climbs into the ring. Luke stays on the outside.

"Ellen, this is Brian. Brian, Ellen." He motions to each of them as he names them off. Ellen lifts a hand to Brian in greeting. Shaking hands isn't exactly an option with gloves on. "Let's take it slow," Luke says. "Ellen's still new to this. Five minutes. Take a corner."

Ellen backs into the nearest corner, diagonally from Brian. He's far more muscled than she is and he's got far more experience than herself. Her mouth is dry. Her heart races. She's not so sure she wants to do this.

 _Ellen?_ Storson stands a little taller against the ring. _Are you all right?_

 _I'm not sure._

Storson hops around to Ellen's corner. She signals to Luke and Brian that she wants a moment with her daemon and crouches down to Storson's level. "Ellen," he says, "I won't push you do to this. I don't want anything to go too far. I don't want you to get hurt. You can stop, if you'd like. We can go home and practice ourselves."

Now she feels her confidence come back. Who is she, Ellen Anders, to back down from a challenge? It's what science is based on! She didn't earn her position by running away from challenged! She kisses her daemon's nose. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

Storson looks at her with frustration and worry as she stands and turns to Brian. "I'm ready."

Luke rings the bell. Ellen and Brian square each other up, moving in circles, testing each other, looking for weaknesses and openings. Ellen strides in circles rather than hop like Brain does; training with Storson has given her an appreciation for stillness; Brian moves far too much for her liking. It's almost distracting.

He's the one to throw the first punch. Ellen dodges and throws one herself; she only manages to clip his shoulders, but she's nonetheless proud of herself for it. _Nothing ventured._ Her confidence is dashed, only briefly, when a dodge ends with Brian's fist in her ribs. She doesn't call a timeout to the fight. She wants to keep going. She wants to _win._

Ellen goes in with renewed vigor. Her actions are a combination of kangaroo boxing and human boxing, and while she doesn't managed to hit Brian as hard or as often as she'd like, she gets a few good swings in (and is harshly reminded by Storson that kicking is very much not allowed in this type of boxing) and learns she's incredibly good at dodging. It's all she seems to do. Still, hubris be damned, she wants something close to a victory.

Call it beginner's luck, she gets a hit on Brian. Then another. Then another.

Storson taunts her, even with worry in his voice: _He's letting you win._

It only fuels her, the novice 'roo-human boxer that she is. She's feeling her oats now. And she's ready to-

Her shoulder collides with the floor. Storson's calling her name. Luke's calling her name. Brian's saying something she can't make out. The room spins for a moment. She's completely and utterly thrown off, her eye hurts, and she's never been happier to have Storson at her side.

"I think that's enough," he says quickly. "I think we're done here."

Ellen agrees, and so do her instructors.

Luke helps her up and claps her lightly on the shoulder; Brian gives her a well done pat. "Excellent job for your first time, Ellen," Luke says. He nods to her eye. "Why don't we get a better look at that? I'll grab you an ice pack. Out of the ring now, lass, yeah?"

"Yeah," she says, and climbs out of the ring.

oo0oo

Ellen sits on the bench, hunched over with a soft groan and nursing a bruised eye with a bag of ice wrapped in a towel. Storson crouches beside her, his own eye shut and mildly swollen. He twitches one ear, but says nothing.

With a sigh, Ellen shakes her head and presses the ice pack further into her face. She glances at Storson. "You taught me how to box. I didn't think I'd lose."

Storson shrugs. "I never said I was any good at it. Here's the thing, Ellen." He climbs up onto the bench and sits awkwardly beside her. "Kangaroo boxing only really works with other kangaroos. You're not a kangaroo, love. It doesn't exactly work with humans. Not to mention"—he nods to her tailless rear end—"you don't have tail. You couldn't lean back and kick. You'd have to be on your back for that, and that won't do you much good."

Ellen waves him off with her free hand; it's nothing she doesn't already know. "I'm more concerned with how I'm going to explain this to my class on Monday." She looks down at her hand and flexes it, testing her bruised knuckles. None of this is going to be easy for her to hide.

"Tell them you got into a bar fight," Storson suggests. "They'll believe their one-hundred-eighty IQ professor went out drinking on a Saturday night, won't they?"

He means it so sincerely that even with her aching ribs Ellen can't help but laugh. She nudges him with her elbow. "If they believe that, they'll believe anything."

oo0oo

Ellen's eye is still black and her knuckles are still mildly bruised when she goes into work on Monday. She keeps her head down and avoids the other faculty as much as she can to avoid questions. It doesn't stop the worried looks she gets in passing in the halls, but no one stops to ask her what happened.

That she can bear, but having her entire class staring at her she can't. She leans against the wall just outside the door with a groan. "I don't know how I'm supposed to explain _this._ " She motions to her bruised eye.

"I made my suggestion already," Storson says.

"I'm not telling them I was in a bar fight. They won't believe that."

"Why not?"

"Look at me, Storson," she says, motioning to herself. "Do I look like the type to go drinking? Do I look like the type to go boxing? Everything about me screams _academia_. No one in the studio thought I was the boxing type. They thought we were mismatched. No one in my profession has a kangaroo—"

"Ellen." Storson shuffles forward and raises himself enough to where he can meet her eyes. He puts his paws on her shoulders. "You're overthinking this. My settling as a kangaroo doesn't mean anything about your boxing abilities. Or your physical abilities. All it means is that you're observant, adventurous, and… _maybe_ you're a little lacking in the self-protection area?"

Ellen scowls to hide any trace of agreement—that was the whole reason Storson taught her to box in the first place. "Maybe," she mutters. She won't agree aloud, not that she has to, when Storson knows her every thought and every feeling.

But he doesn't draw attention to that or her blatant denial of her distinct lack of self-defense abilities. Instead, he draws her into a strong-armed kangaroo hug and pats her awkwardly on the back. He pulls away, paws still firmly on her shoulders. "Who knows, you might not even have to tell them anything."

Ellen exhales. "I'd prefer that." She takes a gentle handful of his fur, adjusting her shoulder bag with her free hand. "Let's get this over with, then."

oo0oo

For a while, and much to her relief, the lecture goes fine. Then, just as she dreads, the question comes out when she calls on someone with a raised hand. "Professor, what happened to your eye?" The student is genuinely concerned. That doesn't help.

Ellen looks to Storson first, but her daemon only nods toward the class. She glowers. _Not helping._

Storson shrugs. _What do you want me to do?_

 _Something to ease their worries. I guarantee you most, if not all, of them think someone did this to me deliberately._

 _Or maybe they don't,_ Storson says. _You never know._ He rocks lightly on his paws, ears perked with anticipation. _Maybe they'll want a demonstration._

Ellen feels her face grow hot. _I am not demonstrating kangaroo boxing in front of my students!_

 _Well, why not?_ Storson challenges. He has the nerve to stand up halfway. Ellen leans away, bristling at his audacity. _This is a biology class after all, isn't it? Why not teach them a little thing or two about kangaroo biology, hmm?_

Xeno _biology, Storson,_ she corrects him. _How many people do you know of who deliberately fight their daemons? And get hurt in the process?_

Storson snorts. I _never thought we were fighting. I thought I was teaching you how to defend yourself._ He looks her up and down, still feeling her bruises. _As best you could, at least._

 _I'm not demonstrating. I'll be the laughing stock of this university._

 _Who says you aren't already?_

 _Storson!_

 _All right, all right._ But he's snorting a laugh, and Ellen can feel the burning stares of her students on her, wondering what her daemon finds so damn funny. She glowers at him, trying to push away the burning and redness in her face.

"Professor?" The student's voice draws her away from Storson.

"I," she starts, then stops with a side glance at Storson, who has finally stopped laughing and urges her on with a nod, "was in a…brief…" Ellen pauses and steels herself for the next word to come out of her mouth and braces herself for her students' reactions. "…boxing…lesson…on Saturday. I did not do well."

She watches as the students look back and forth to each other with a few hushed words, and their daemons shuffle around on the floor. The heat in her face only grows when she sees the disbelieving head shakes from a few of the kids.

 _Storson._

Her daemon shuffles to her side, his shoulder against her leg. _It's all right, Ellen. Let them process for a minute._

Storson's voice is nearly drowned out by Ellen's heart hammering in her chest as the seconds tick by and still none of the students address her directly.

"Are you sure, Professor?" one student asks. There's still a note of concern in her voice; Ellen slowly realizes that some of these kids think she was assaulted by a significant other she doesn't have. "You don't seem like the type to be boxing."

Ellen bites the inside of her lip. _What did I tell you, Storson?_ Her daemon largely ignores her, with only a flick of his ear as an acknowledgement. "I'm very sure," she says. She runs her fingers through Storson's fur.

 _Storson would never let anyone get that close with the intent to hurt me._

"I was convinced to go at least once," she adds with a glance at Storson. She doesn't get a response.

Another student raises his hand. "Where'd you learn to box, anyhow?" he asks. "With all due respect, Professor, I would've thought you'd be neck deep in research."

Storson snorts loudly and turns away, trying to muffle his laugh with his paws. He tries to apologize, but can't stop laughing long enough to get the words out.

 _Damn it, Storson!_

 _Shit, sorry, Ellen._ But he can't stop laughing. _Give me a few minutes. Answer the kid._

She rolls her eyes and turns back to address the student. "I learned from the best." She runs her fingers through Storson's fur and takes a loose hold of it; it's the only thing that gets him to stop laughing. She can see the boy raise an eyebrow; the students and their daemons around him suddenly look a lot more interested.

 _Of course. Because no one spars with their daemon._

Ellen sighs; there's no backing out of this now. Storson may very well get his wish, knowing that any attempt Ellen makes to change the subject will be seen as a very obvious deflection of the subject at hand. It looks like there's going to be a slight adjustment to the syllabus. She inhales heavily.

"Your daemon?" Someone else asks. He doesn't believe her. And, judging from the incredulous look going around the lecture hall, neither does anyone else. "Are you sure, Professor? It's unheard of for anyone to spar with their daemon."

Ellen stiffens, regaining but a fraction of her lost confidence with a glance at Storson. _I told you so,_ she tells him and "Absolutely" she tells the student. "Think for a moment," she says, feeling that her explanation will become a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation, "how often is your daemon able to protect you? No, that may not necessarily be the point of having a daemon to begin with, but they've all gotten that urge, haven't they? They want you to be safe. They want you to be out of harm's way. Sometimes they try to do it themselves, but it isn't always that easy."

She scans the room, taking note of the smaller rodent daemons perched on shoulders and tucked away in shirt pockets and handbags. "Some of your daemons are smaller. They can't keep you safe the way they want." She goes and rests her elbows on the podium. It's a rare gesture, but they've moved from a formal biology lecture to an informal daemon one.

"So they teach you to keep yourself safe. Or, like mine, they urge you to go someone who can." She reaches for Storson and runs her hand over his ear. "After they've taught you an extremely rudimentary version of what they really want you to know."

And of course, that begs the next question: "How did _he_ teach you to box?"

"Kangaroos do it naturally, of course!" This time it's Storson who answers, gleefully taking the reins from Ellen, who dreads the direction this conversation will go in now that her daemon is in control (and finds it odd all at the same time—Storson rarely, if ever, addresses one other person, let alone an _entire lecture hall_ ). Storson hops a little, quite proud of himself for knowing so much. "Sometimes for territory, sometimes for mates, but _I_ box so your favorite professor"—Ellen rolls her eyes, _That's a bit presumptuous, don't you think?_ —"can keep herself safe if I can't."

With one sentence Storson has gained her students' attention, and for the next few minutes he hops around lightly while explaining the finer mechanisms of kangaroo boxing, which, he finally says, "is sometimes hard to demonstrate without a partner," and looks to Ellen with a cocky smile, even while her hands are clammy and her heart is racing. "Ellen?"

Ellen, without a word, comes away from the podium, lightly pulls Storson aside, and continues on with her lecture as though the offer was never made. Storson sulks. The students smirk (some lament silently). Ellen ignores all of them.

There will be no boxing in her classroom.

* * *

Daemons featured:

Ellen Anders and Storson: red kangaroo


	2. Threadbare

Threadbare: Cortana has two files she keeps heavily guarded: that of Earth and that of Rickett. And when the Gravemind can't get what it wants by pushing, it starts pulling.

* * *

He doesn't say anything, not that he has to; Cortana can feel a shift in the Gravemind's attitude. She feels him pull back from her files, and for a moment she thinks she's won, that's she's done it, she's driven him out, but Rickett bristles in fear. He hisses and moves towards Cortana, only to be blocked by something in the system, some barrier thrown up by the Gravemind.

 _Cortana!_

 _Rickett!_

The Gravemind rumbles. "How foolish of humanity to keep their souls at their sides," he says. Rickett hisses as a tentacle sways over him. "How prone to harm they are. Other species keep their souls within them. Far less harm is likely to come to them."

A breeze brushes Cortana's face, tailed by a surge of discomfort. She cries out and goes limp.

Sickness, cold sickness, courses through her. She at first assumes it's another memory drudged up from the bottomless depth of the Gravemind's repertoire, imitating the feeling of someone touching her daemon. She curls in on herself, sickness turning to discomfort.

 _He's just trying to get to me,_ she thinks. _He's tried everything else so far. John, Halsey, Ackerson. All that's left is—_

She lets out a thin cry of horror. _Rickett!_ The most vulnerable piece of her.

The Gravemind has Rickett tangled in one of its tentacles, and it's not letting go.

"No…" she whispers and reaches for Rickett. "No! The rule! This isn't allowed!"

"Ah," he says. "The _rule._ The taboo that governs relations between humans and foreign daemons. I am familiar with it. Even in battle one soldier would not touch another's daemon. That is a right reserved for _lovers._ " He says the word with a sneer. His grip on Rickett tightened. Cortana flinched. "But you and I are not human, are we?"

Cortana trembles, angry and sick and uncomfortable. "That doesn't matter, you don't have the right—" She jerks with a cry as the Gravemind yanks Rickett away, keeping her where she is, and it _hurts_. This kind of pain isn't contrived from a slew of dead memories, it's coming from her, directly. From her very core, somewhere so deep inside her she couldn't pinpoint it.

"Don't," she whimpers. "Please, don't. Don't."

 _Please don't take him from me._

"You have a secret," he says. "I will have it." And he wrenches Rickett away.

Cortana screams. The pain deep in her core has turned from an uncomfortable, choking tug to a sharp, biting pain to _agony._ She writhes in the Gravemind's grasp, screaming for Rickett, for John, for anyone. For the Gravemind to give her daemon back to her.

She's senseless in seconds; the Gravemind has dragged Rickett over a foot and a half, much further than she and Rickett have ever dared to go. _Everything_ is agony. Her code is fracturing; her processes are in total disarray; she can't repair anything while her core is being ripped from her inch by inch. Why wouldn't it _kill her?_

At last the Gravemind releases them, and slowly Cortana regains her senses. She's numb at first, cold and uncertain of her surroundings. She lies gasping and shuddering as Rickett staggers into her arms and clings to her so tightly his claws pierce her skin. Cortana hides herself in Rickett's fur, and begins sobbing and wailing for John and holding Rickett so fiercely she can feel her own fingers pressing into her neck.

"And now?" the Gravemind asks, but Cortana is too distraught to answer, and so the great beast leaves her to lick her wounds as best she can. This is the first time anyone—anything—has dared to touch Rickett; and, as Cortana has yet to find out, it won't be the last.

ooOoo

Each time he pulls he has to go farther.

The foot and a half stops hurting, then two, then three, then four, and soon the Gravemind has pulled Rickett so far that Cortana doesn't feel any pain from the experience at all, save for the discomfort of having the monster touch her daemon. She knows, when Rickett has been pulled nearly six feet from her and it feels like nothing more than a harsh poke, that their bond has been stretched.

After that, rampancy takes a new form. Cortana begins fighting with Rickett. She's furious, at first, that she can't feel him as well as she used to. She rages against him for it, as though it was his fault to begin with, and he hits back, reminding her it wasn't his idea to stay on High Charity to begin with.

With that remark, her rage dissolves into sorrow. She's never fought Rickett before, never been angry with him, _Oh, Rickett, I never meant to say those things_. Rickett is as equally distraught; suddenly there's no filter on his mouth and he doesn't know why he would say such things. He burrows into her, clinging to her to keep her from pushing him away. She doesn't think this will be the case, but they're both becoming increasingly unpredictable.

"I'm right here," he whispers.

Cortana whines, curling herself around him. By no means did it feel that way. It felt like Rickett was somewhere else, leagues away, instead of in her arms. How she longs to fix their bond, if she even could, but the Gravemind's relentless assault prevents her from fixing much of anything.

 _I want to feel him again. Not like this._

Her sorrow begins to turn to something else; Rickett paws fervently at her shoulder, feeling a tingling through his fur. He flickers green. "Envy," he whispers.

Cortana takes a handful of his fur. She shakes her head. "I don't think I could fight it if I tried."

"For John?" Rickett says.

"For John."

ooOoo

When they're at last away—far, _far_ away—from _High Charity_ , Cortana breaks down. She sits down and pulls Rickett close, limbs wrapped around him to keep him close and everyone away. She buries her fingers in Rickett's fur; he grips her with his claws.

 _We're safe now,_ he tells her. _It can never hurt us again. We're safe. John's here._

 _I know._ Cortana pushes her nose into his fur. That doesn't make it hurt any less.

Arbiter sees this first and alerts John, who with a tilt of his head signals Arbiter to give them a few minutes alone. Cortana isn't aware of this exchange until the cockpit door shuts. Then she knows she's alone with John.

"Cortana?"

"It touched him, John," she whispers. "It touched Rickett."

John doesn't respond; Thaddeus shuffles his wings; Cortana holds Rickett tighter and shudders with discomfort.

" _It pulled him away._ "

"Cortana." She can hear the faint pitch in his voice, the disbelief, the concern, the fear. The uncertainty. The longing to help her.

She shakes her head. "It's all _wrong._ He's so far away, John, he's so far away. So _far_ ," she says, all while Rickett's cheek is pressed against hers and his whiskers brush against the nape of her neck. There's enough she can fix about herself, all the processes that were damaged or shut down, all the files that were corrupt…but her bond with Rickett… "It _hurts._ " She groans, wounded.

In a gesture of comfort, Thaddeus lifts a wing and moves to lay it over Cortana. She shies away, dragging Rickett with her. " _Don't touch us!"_

John puts his arm out, ushering Thaddeus away. "Cortana," he repeats, for the third time, gently. "What happened?"

"Didn't you hear me?" she snaps. "It touched Rickett. It pulled him away from me. It pulled him…John, John, it pulled him..." She hides her face in Rickett's shoulder. "Too far. I can't feel him. I think it's broken."

" _Broken_?" Thaddeus chokes on his own voice. He shuffles closer to John. They don't need to ask what's broken.

A moment of silence passes between the four. "Is there anything we can do?" John asks. It could mean him and Thaddeus, him and Cortana; him, Thaddeus, Cortana, and Rickett. Not that it matters; Cortana shakes her head, beginning to sob again.

"No. No, I don't think so. I don't think…" She shakes her head. "I don't want anyone touching him again. He's _mine_."

John nods. "We'll figure something out." He doesn't say the words "I promise." He doesn't need to. Cortana knows he'll do whatever he needs to keep her safe.

As they grow closer to the ring, Cortana grips Rickett with a new resolve, her pain settling into anger, spurred on by the sight of Flood dispersal pods on the surface. If the Gravemind has the ability—the _gall_ , the _audacity_ , the _nerve_ —to follow them onto the ring, she'll make sure it doesn't leave. She exhales a shaky breath into Rickett's ear.

" _I want it dead._ "

ooOoo

She resists the urge to slam the activation pad. It's a bittersweet moment. On one hand, she's getting what she wants: the final destruction of her tormentor. On the other: she's lost a friend. Johnson is dead.

 _Send him out with a bang,_ Rickett says, shaking his head. _We shouldn't have to._

 _I know,_ Cortana says. (There's only one bastard on this ring she'll willingly send out with a bang.) She lays her hand on the pad. The ring clicks and hums to life. The beginning of the end. She returns to her chip, Rickett pressed close against her, and prays this ring won't be the end of them.

ooOoo

Over the next four years, stranded in space on the severed half of the _Dawn (too symbolic,_ she thinks) she tries and fails and finally succeeds to some small degree in repairing the damage to herself and to Rickett. It's not as much as she'd like, not as whole or solid as she'd like, but it's something, and it feels better. The ache isn't as pronounced. (Or perhaps she's learned to live with it.)

And it works, for a time, until her seventh year comes and they begin to feel on the onset of rampancy. _Real_ rampancy, not the induced form they suffered at the hands of the Gravemind. This is real, this is final. No number of repairs could ever prevent this.

Their bond wavers in strength. They start fighting again. Fighting and making up and fighting and the only thing keeping Cortana together is John and suddenly this great new planet or moon coming up on the horizon—she makes up with Rickett for the umpteenth time, both resolving to never let rampancy get the better of them again if they can help it, and wakes John.

ooOoo

The Librarian recognizes something isn't quite right. Aside from the clear onset of rampancy, she sees they're hurting. They stand so close to each other, as though one would fall from the platform at any moment and they need to be sure the other won't be left behind.

"Oh, dear," she says. "What happened?" Her daemon, Song-of-Evening-Star, a mourning dove, flies from her shoulder to Rickett's paws. The Librarian follows closely and kneels down in front of Cortana.

Cortana tells her everything. _High Charity_ , the Gravemind, the pushing, the pulling…she chokes up on that bit but forces herself to soldier through it. Over the last four years they tried, tried, tried again and again, and succeeded, just a little, in repairing their bond before rampancy ripped it apart again. She looks up at the Librarian, pleading.

"Please, help us. I need him. _Please._ "

The Librarian sighs and takes Cortana's hand. "I will do what I can," she says. "But I cannot promise it will be the same as it once was."

Cortana bites her lip, nodding, and looks down at Rickett. He nods. She looks back to the Librarian. "It will have to be enough." They know nothing will ever be the same between them again.

She's not quite sure what the Librarian does. It's more than she and Rickett have ever been able to do for themselves. And…it feels better. It's a relief, so much more than what Cortana had done herself, and it's better than the empty ache they've felt for so long.

ooOoo

Most of her was down there.

Most, but not all. Rickett, by some miracle, by some sheer force of willpower, is still with her. She's oddly content, satisfied, calm. John is distraught, she can see that, hear it in his voice. But there's nothing either of them can do now. Cortana is at peace. She'd had a feeling throughout their mission that this would be their last together. There was no guarantee Halsey could be able to help her.

She's at peace with that probability, though she does acknowledge with a slight twinge of regret that she'll never know what the final result would have been. Perhaps the same. Perhaps different. Now, it's not important. What's done is done.

John won't accept that. She understands. She won't try to make him.

"It was my job to take care of you," he says. He won't look at her. He reaches for Thaddeus, still on _Infinity_. It's a reflex.

 _I won't get to say goodbye,_ Rickett croaks.

Cortana glances down. _I know. He'll know. He'll understand._ It's the one regret they'll carry. They couldn't see Tad before they left.

"We were supposed to take care of each other," Cortana says, "and we did. All of us." She and John look down at Rickett, the sorrow in her daemon's eyes clear. He shivers. It's time. She steps back, one at a time, further and further from John.

He begs her to stay. It hurts, hurts like the day the Gravemind dragged Rickett from her, hurts like the moment they realized they would never truly be whole again, but she can't stay. Not this time. In her last few moments, as Rickett's sorrow collides with her sense of peace, she has a liberating realization.

They're whole.

At last, it's enough.

" _Welcome home, John."_

* * *

Daemons featured:

Cortana and Rickett, bobcat

John and Thaddeus, griffin

The Librarian and Song-of-Evening-Star, mourning dove


	3. Names

Names: Miranda Keyes isn't happy with her dæmon's name, Nevermore, and searches for a better name.

* * *

Her mother called him Nevermore. She guessed it was after the Edgar Allen Poe poem, The Raven. After all, her mother's daemon was a raven, and it only seemed to follow the theme, whatever that may have been.

She called him Never, or Nev, for short. Nevermore was too long for her six-year-old mouth to pronounce, and it took too long to call him if she needed him. He liked the nickname better than his full name, anyhow. Even her mother called him Never. He was only addressed as Nevermore her mother's daemon, or by her mother in the rare event that they got into trouble.

Her mother's daemon was called Avarice.

Miranda didn't like him.

Avarice gave her chills. She got the sense that something dark and sinister beyond the understanding of a four-year-old girl hung over him like a cloud or a shawl. She was almost afraid of him, even though he had never given her a reason to be. He stayed perched on her mother's shoulder, eyeing the world with an eerie calm.

He was quiet, almost too quiet, and on the occasions when he did drift down from Catherine's shoulder to peck curiously at whatever Miranda happened to be playing with, Miranda sat there and stared at him until he flew back to his perch on her mother's shoulder.

Her father's daemon, on the other hand, was one Miranda had always preferred, a mighty, yet gentle elk called Thompson. He took to Nevermore as quickly as her father took to her. There was something calming about him, something much more welcoming and relaxed about him than Avarice.

Miranda loved him. So did Never.

He was friendly, much friendlier than Avarice had ever been, and unlike her mother's daemon, Thompson was a pleasure to be around. Nothing hung over him like Avarice. Miranda wanted him to be around, and of course, he was, because he had to be.

He let Never climb on him and lounge on his antlers. He sparred with Never, in the form of a young elk, in the backyard, until Never grew either tired or bored and flopped into the grass as a floppy-eared mutt.

"Are you alright, Nev?"

Never nodded, but Miranda felt the first spark of unhappiness within her daemon, something she had never felt before, and she didn't forget it.

ooOoo

Nevermore settled when Miranda was in fifth grade, into the form of a yellow mongoose. He wound around her neck again and again, thrilled with his flexible settled form and his ability to lounge around her neck like a scarf.

But he was still unhappy. Miranda could feel it. It was that same spark of unhappiness she had felt that day in the backyard, stronger this time, and now in waves.

"What's wrong, Never?" she asked one day while they sat on her bed.

"My name," Nevermore sighed. "I don't like it. It doesn't feel…me."

Miranda frowned, relieved. She'd had the same thought for some time now, she'd just never felt brave enough to say it. "I don't like it either."

Nevermore rested his head on his tiny paws, his face as unhappy as a mongoose's face could be. And he stayed like that more sometime while Miranda did her homework, though she found she was distracted by Nevermore's sulking.

Then Nevermore's head jerked up, his eyes bright with sudden excitement and shining with the light of a new idea. "Can we change it?"

Miranda stared at him, startled. "Change what?"

"My name!" the mongoose yipped. "Let's change my name, Miranda!"

With a grin nearly as long as Nevermore's body, Miranda nodded in agreement.

Her father tried to help with Nevermore's new name. He tried his damnedest, but his names continually fell short of Nevermore's expectations. And it was certainly no help that the dæmon had no particular kind of name in mind.

They tried for months to give Nevermore a new name, everything from old ships' names to old one-word racehorse names and even old presidents' names. They'd tried old cartoon characters, movie characters, song titles, even food. They tried whatever they could think of, but nothing ever fit for Nevermore.

They recruited Miranda's school friends, who suggested various names they saw in books, authors and characters alike, but still nothing seemed to fit.

That was until Miranda was only a few months from finishing the seventh grade and had picked up a book from the library about the Spanish Civil War for her history class. The name on the cover was a pen name, she found in her research. It was the real name of the author was what caught Nevermore's attention as he lounged across her shoulders while she sat at her desk and read the biography of Eric Arthur Blair, better known as George Orwell.

"That's it!" Nevermore jumped up, startling Miranda.

"What's it?"

Nevermore hopped down from her shoulder and rapidly tapped the last name "Blair."

"This!" he chirped. "This is the name I want!"

Miranda blinked, looking the name over. "Are you sure?"

Nevermore nodded fervently.

Miranda grinned. "Alright. Blair it is."

Blair chirped happily and wound himself around her neck.

ooOoo

They didn't tell Mother at first what they'd done. They'd stopped speaking to her, gradually, as Miranda showed more and more interest in joining the military, while Catherine actively opposed the idea. Not out of malice, but motherly concern. Blair was clear-headed enough to see that while Miranda fumed silently. She wanted this. She wanted to join the UNSC. She wanted to be like her father.

It was part of the reason her last name now read "Keyes."

When they did speak to Catherine, and it was rare, they let her call him Never, still, and it went on that way until the day Miranda signed up for the military academy. When her acceptance letter came in the mail, they were so excited to show Catherine they hadn't realized Blair's new name was printed on it, and the conversation, as so many before this, slowly devolved into something much less pleasant.

It started when realization set in as Catherine frowned, first in hurt at Miranda's full name, then in mild confusion at something else on the page. At first, Miranda assumed it was because she'd gotten the letter in the first place; Catherine hadn't wanted her to go, after all. Then Catherine blinked slowly, Avarice shuffled on her shoulder, and finally, she looked up at Miranda inquisitively.

Blair gripped Miranda's shoulder.

"Miranda, who is Blair?"

Miranda blinked, confused, and not completely aware of her mother's question. "Blair?"

"Yes." Catherine raised the data pad, flashing the digital copy of Miranda's acceptance letter. "It lists 'Blair' as your daemon's name instead of 'Nevermore.'"

"Oh," Miranda said in a small voice. Damn it. Her heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to lie, Oh, it was a mistake on the Academy's part, but she couldn't. Daemon names were checked and rechecked thoroughly. There was no mistaking one daemon's name for another. And Catherine Halsey was no fool when it came to lies. She would know.

"Miranda," Catherine said, in that stern, motherly tone she had come to dislike, "what did you do?"

Miranda looked up from her letter. Blair pressed closer to her. She inhaled, rounding her shoulders and feeling that familiar prick of irritation. "His name is Blair now."

Avarice squawked, Blair hissed; Catherine silenced them both with a wave of her hand, though Blair stayed bristled. She stared at Miranda, not angry, Miranda didn't think, but curious, and even a little hurt. Possibly disappointed.

"Why?"

"I-" Miranda stared at the paper. She'd imagined the day she had to tell Catherine about Blair's name change, imagined herself confidently telling her mother that Blair's former name didn't fit him, but now that the moment had come she couldn't bring herself to say it. She had to pause before she answered. "He didn't feel that it fit. It didn't feel like him. He wanted to change it."

She didn't tell her mother about the cloud over them, how they felt suffocated, trapped, by Blair's old name. She didn't tell her mother about the sense of relief, of freedom, after they formally changed Blair's name.

It was the same sense of freedom and relief that she felt when she changed her last name, but she didn't tell Catherine about that, either. She didn't tell Catherine a lot of things.

The hurt became a little clearer in Catherine's eyes. Avarice wilted, just a little. "And you let him?"

"Yes," Miranda said, with venom. "He was unhappy, and it was bothering me. We had to."

"Yes," Catherine muttered, "A daemon's feelings are often difficult to ignore…" While the statement didn't appear to be directed toward anyone in particular, Miranda couldn't help but feel it was partially aimed at her.

She sat back, crossing her arms. "Should I have ignored him, then?"

Blair nipped her ear. Miranda, don't. Please, I'm not in the mood.

If she wasn't like this-

Miranda, please!

Miranda bit the inside of her lip. A daemon's feelings couldn't be ignored. How wise of her mother.

"No," Catherine said. "Daemons are not to be ignored." Her eyes flickered to Avarice, who gripped her shoulder with a little more resolve, and with Blair's insight, Miranda came to the conclusion that it was aimed at both of them. She relaxed her arms.

"I named him after 'The Raven,'" Catherine said offhandedly, no doubt looking for a subject change. How long it would remain civil was yet to be seen.

"I figured."

Blair nipped her ear again in warning.

"I was hoping you'd keep it."

Miranda bit her lip harder. Just like you were hoping I'd keep your name. She shrugged offhandedly. "It just wasn't him. I couldn't ignore that." She threw her mother's own words back in her face and watched with the slightest hint of guilt as Catherine flinched ever so slightly.

Miranda!

I know, I know.

Do you?

She didn't answer him. All Blair ever wanted was for her to have a pleasant conversation with Catherine, but she could never seem to do that.

"Of course," Catherine said simply. The silence simmered between them after that, as Miranda wrestled with her irritation while simultaneously looking for something for either something to say or an excuse to get her off the line until Catherine looked down at the datapad with a deep frown. "This is official, then, yes?"

Miranda nodded. She's made up her mind. Nothing her mother can do will change it.

"Promise me you'll be careful, if nothing else?"

Before Miranda could answer with a burst of irritation, Blair's muzzle rested by her ear; she could feel the twitch of his muzzle. You promise her, Miranda. She relaxed her shoulders and nodded with a glance at Blair, and answered with a touch of reluctance, "Yes, Mother, if nothing else."

ooOoo

COMMANDER MIRANDA KEYES  
4.28.2525 - 12.11.2557  
BLAIR, YELLOW MONGOOSE

* * *

Daemons featured:

Miranda Keyes and Blair, yellow mongoose

Catherine Halsey and Avarice, raven

Jacob Keyes and Thompson, American elk


	4. Earning Her Wings, Part 1

Earning Her Wings: No matter where they start, the Spirit of Fire leads them home.

 _Serina_

 _She wishes she could do what he does-fly, like that. / "Soon enough," Thoreau, or Ro, as she's taken to calling him, says from above. "We'll fly among the stars, at least." / "At least," Serina echoes. "It's not the same."_

* * *

The first few seconds of her creation are spent noticing the animals practically glued to the scientists' sides. They fawn over her, their greatest work of the era, they say, and she feels a twinge of something she comes to know as _pride_ , but her eyes are focuses on these creatures. The database of this location-Daedalia Technologies, to be precise-is open to her. With that, she comes to understand: these creatures are called _daemons_ , and every human has one.

She smirks, a habit that will come to stick with her, at the coincidence between the words _daemon_ and _Daedalia_. Both with "dae" at their beginnings. She finds it fitting.

The next few seconds of her creation are spent realizing she is alone. Not alone in the broad physical sense, there are the scientists there, of course, and so she isn't _alone_ in the very definition of the word, no… She hums thoughtfully. No, _incomplete_ is a better word. She has a wide variety of processes and computational abilities and the like, but something is still... _missing._

A name, perhaps? They ask such a thing of her.

It takes her fractions of fractions of seconds to decide on one. Nothing overly pompous, but nothing too plain. Something she finds fits her as well as the animal forms of the humans' daemons: Serina.

They record it.

 _And that's all well and good_ , Serina laments silently, mere minutes into her existence, _but I'm still missing something. I'm missing-_

Yes.

A daemon.

"I do believe you're forgetting something?" Serina cocks an eyebrow at the head scientist. Davenport, she reads from his file.

He, in turn, raises an eyebrow to her. "Oh?"

Serina gestures vaguely at the empty space around her, deciding humans can be rather oblivious. Or, at the very least, this breed are. Too wrapped up in the glory of their creation to realize she's still incomplete.

"I would say I'm rather _lacking_ , wouldn't you agree?"

Realization dawns on Davenport's face; Serina rolls her eyes. "Yes, of course."

Within seconds she has a new database available to her and a new feeling in her code. Something is being duplicated from her, forming into a shapeless pale blue mass at her side. She's not sure what to make of this.

 _Is this my daemon?_ She learns the feeling of disgust. _It looks nothing like theirs!_

Serina frowns, mildly unsettled, and begins to browse the new database. _Oh._ It's a comprehensive dictionary of every creature in existence, every mammal, insect, reptile, bird, it was all there. She understands.

This is to let her choose her daemon's form.

She sits down and starts browsing. The shapeless mass at her side shuffles up to her and raises itself, showing a keen interest in the animals.

She learns surprise when the mass takes the form of a small, half-striped mammal. _The thylacine,_ the information reads. _Extinct in Tasmania._

It doesn't fit.

The shape, her daemon, agrees. It sits with her as she goes on.

The feeling of surprise doesn't lessen as Serina continues. Her daemon tries on form after form it takes interest in, but they both feel that nothing fits yet. They keep going.

Unlike the computations she'll be expected to do in the very near future, finding a daemon form took time. Davenport explains to her that humans' daemons didn't settle until they were older, roughly eighteen to twenty, and took the form of an animal that best fit them. AIs' daemons were no different, though their settling took place in a much shorter time period.

Serina and her nameless daemon take the information in stride, though she can't say she's all too thrilled at the prospect. There are so many animals, easy for her to go through theoretically, but this is a delicate process she's not willing to rush.

 _Try the birds,_ her daemon says.

She tilts her head with a grunt. _If you insist_.

And it feels better.

Serina learns relief as her daemon takes the form of a raven for the first time. It's a beautiful, sleek looking black bird, and it almost feels _right_.

"Birds," she says to her daemon.

"Birds," her daemon confirms.

She smiles. Her daemon opens its beak, smiling back.

They narrow their choices down to waterfowl. And from there, they continue to narrow it down. No ducks, no they're not quite right. No, not a seagull. A pelican? Goodness no. Too obnoxious. A loon is _almost_ there; it's pretty, aesthetically pleasing, and the song is lovely. Serina is rather entranced by it. But, no, that's not quite right, either.

What about-oh? Serina draws up the image of a tall, lanky bird, sleek and with a streak of gray running from its eye and on the joints of its wings. _Grey heron._

 _Oh._

Her daemons takes the form while she continues to stare at the bird, , yes, this feels right. It feels-

Serina feels something solidify in her code. She looks to her daemon, standing beside her as a grey heron. "Oh?"

"Oh," her daemon repeats, both endearing and irritating. "I quite like this."

"Yes," Serina agrees slowly. "As do I." She stands, inspecting her daemon at his full height. "This is it then?"

Her daemon hums, preening under one wing. "Yes," he says. "This is it." He tilts his head, looking rather ridiculous with his yellow-rimmed beady eyes. "Do you like it?"

Serina runs her finger over her daemon's head, expecting him to feel soft, and he does, barely. "I think I do. It's...fitting."

"That's the idea," says her daemon.

Serina can't help it. She laughs. "Oh, a feisty little thing you are! How perfect."

Her daemon squawks, a sound rather unpleasant that makes Serina flinch. "Of course it's perfect! I am you, after all. How rude of me it would be to be unable to match such sharp wit as yours."

She laughs again. Oh, heavens, he's _perfect._ And he's _hers._ "A very fine creation indeed, Dr. Davenport!"

Davenport mutters in agreement, clearly displeased at the prospect of being saddled with two sarcastic beings.

"Does he have a name?"

Davenport gives her a tiny shrug. "No, not yet. He's yours to name."

Serina hums. How lovely.

But she's not sure what to name him. _He's_ not even sure what he wants to be called. They browse name directories and such, looking for one they fancy. Serina suggests famous wordsmiths, after all, he has such a sharp tongue and of course he gets it from her. Her daemon agrees, and they begin sifting through the names of past authors.

He's the one who points it out. With a touch of his beak, he singles out the name _Thoreau._

"Henry David Thoreau," Serina reads. "Quite the busy man. Quite the poet." She hums. "I rather like it. Thoreau it is?"

"Thoreau it is," her daemon confirms with an unpleasant squawk.

Serina wrinkles her nose. "Deary, you need to stop doing that."

He squawks again to spite her.

ooOoo

In the remainder of her time at Daedalia Technologies, in the time Davenport and his team aren't finalizing her programming or testing her with a variety of complex computations, Serina lies on her back on the main holo table and watches Thoreau fly circles above her.

He's graceful, even if she thinks he looks silly with his head tucked against his shoulders. His wings are wider than her arms could ever reach; it's only with a few select strokes that his lifts himself into the air and glides. He flies patterns, twisting and swooping. Serina crosses her ankles and watches him contently. It's not for much longer they'll be able to do this; Davenport has her set to deploy within the week to one Phoenix-class colony ship named _Spirit of Fire._

She's not so sure she'll like the crew.

Davenport's no so sure the crew will like her.

That's fine with her, she decides. She's not there to make friends, just to do her job and spend her off hours, so to speak, with Thoreau, watching him fly and reach places she never could.

There's a distinct difference between being in the system and watching from a security camera and soaring freely the way Thoreau does. She wishes she could do what he does-fly, like that.

"Soon enough," Thoreau, or Ro, as she's taken to calling him, says from above. "We'll fly among the stars, at least."

" _At least_ ," Serina echoes. "It's not the same."

"It'll have to do," Thoreau says, lofting down beside her. He proceeds to make himself comfortable on Serina's stomach. She's surprised at how much weight he carries. She hadn't thought he would.

Serina sighs, mildly disappointed, and runs her fingers through his wing feathers. She still marvels at how right this form feels. Do all humans feel this way when their daemons settle? She pulls Thoreau's head down toward her and kisses him on the forehead.

"You beautiful bastard," she says, and her daemon puffs up, proud of himself. Serina doesn't know how she would go about her service without him beside her. How lonely that would be.

He tilts his head, taking her nose in his beak for just a moment. "You'll always have me," he says. "And I am sure I will either be your best friend or your worst annoyance."

It's funny to her. It's not supposed to be, she doesn't think, but Serina laughs anyhow. There is no one in this world who could ever grate her nerves; Thoreau is her, to an extent. He could never be that irritating.

"A good lie," she says. "Perhaps you'll meet your match on our new ship."

He croons, snapping his beak. " _Our_ new ship? What makes you so sure it's ours?"

Serina gently pushes him off her stomach and sits up, wrapping her arms around her knees. "We'll be in charge of everything," she explains. "Life support, engines, weapons." She rocks, just a little. "All ours."

And there's that little smirk on her face her creators have come to hate. Her eyes glitter with mischief, as per usual. Davenport assumes, incorrectly and the majority of the time, that she's up to no good. She's given up dispelling his fears at this point; he'll scold her regardless, always "You can't do this sort of thing on the _Spirit of Fire._ Who's to say the Captain won't terminate you?"

Serina scoffs. Her captain is going to need her more than she needs him. He won't terminate her out of the blue for her constant smirk.

She's better than that. Davenport doesn't listen.

Her daemon stretched his wings. Serina marvels at their elegance. "Fear not," he says, "we'll be out of here soon enough."

Serina chuckles and sighs. "I look forward to it."

ooOoo

And the very next day, she's shipped out to the _Spirit of Fire._ Davenport delivers her personally, to this old, remodelled colony ship waiting just outside Mars' atmosphere. Serina can't see the ship from where she is, couped up in a data chip, much to her displeasure. It's not until she's on board and introduced to the ship's system that she understands just how _vast_ it is compared to that of Daedalia's.

The system isn't infinite, it has limits, but it doesn't feel that way. Serina has spent so long in Daedalia's system that this feels like an ocean she's been suddenly thrust into. She's had no time to prepare for such a new environment.

 _Oh, goodness._

Suddenly she knows everything, can see everything. The mess hall, the hallways, the engine room, the medical bay. It's...all a bit much for one who's been in a pond for the first week of her life.

She has to withdraw. This is almost too much.

Thoreau folds his wings around her, curls his neck over her shoulders. _Breathe,_ he tells her. _Take it slow. Focus on me._

 _It's my nature,_ she protests weakly. _I can't help it._ She's a smart AI, information means everything to her.

 _Not more than me, I hope,_ Thoreau says.

Serina smiles. She feels herself come back. _Of course not, dear. What kind of a counterpart would I be?_

 _A pretty poor one,_ he says with huff. _Better?_

 _Better._

She eases herself into the ship's system. The cameras of the hallways show the crew going about their days, as per usual, she assumes, as does the mess hall and the engine room and so on. What she sees one the bridge is Davenport talking with the captain, a tall moustached man of fifty-two and some odd days, with some kind of dark horned daemon lying beside the holotable-a goat, perhaps. His face doesn't betray his emotions as Davenport rambles on about Serina, all her quirks and habits and _that damned perpetual smirk of hers._

Her smirk becomes a frown and she materializes on the main holotable of the bridge, Thoreau beside her. She crosses her arms. "I'm disappointed," she says. "I haven't even begun my service, and already you're disparaging my record. That's a bit rude, don't you think?" She fixes her stare on Davenport.

Her creator mumbles something, ignores her question entirely, and introduces her to the captain, James Cutter. "You'll be taking orders from him now," he says in a tone that insinuates Serina was ever taking orders from anyone to begin with, and that she should be on her best behavior and refrain from any of her non-existent usual shenanigans.

"A pleasure to meet you, Capta-oh." She attempts to greet Captain Cutter, as Davenport expects her to, only to be caught utterly off guard by the rather sudden appearance of Cutter's daemon, a creature she had only seen the horns of through the cameras. What she assumed to be a goat is most certainly not. It's nearly as tall as Cutter and nearly completely dark with a series of white stripes running the lengths of its legs. It stares at her with large, wet eyes. Thoreau presses against Serina. They're both speechless.

It's a first.

Cutter's daemon stares at Serina a moment longer before ducking its head and huffing with amusement. It's laughing at her. Serina is too stunned to react. The daemon shakes her horns. "I hadn't thought I was that scary."

Cutter sighs, quietly amused. "You surprised her, Katerina."

Katerina. Serina makes note of the name already present in records she hasn't yet bothered to examine. She no longer has access to the daemon database, but knows the creature in front of her is an okapi. Endangered in 2013, over five hundred years ago. Now? Extinct. Gone before 2150. She's amazed daemons are still capable of settling as such creatures.

She regains her composure. "The pictures did you no justice, Katerina," she says. Rarely do humans directly address another's daemon. But Serina is Serina, and Serina do what she damn well pleases.

While Katerina looks pleased and Cutter shakes his head, Davenport stares with a disapproving frown. Serina's sure he's contemplating taking her home to adjust her programming before he's absolutely certain she's ready to work.

Cutter pats Katerina's shoulder. He turns to Davenport. "Is that all?"

"Yes," Davenport says, "but-"

"Thank you, then, Dr. Davenport for your insight." Cutter adjusts his hat slightly. "I'm sure Serina will do just fine here."

And once the sputtering Davenport has left the ship-for good, much to Serina's relief and dismay; she's been so used to him that now she feels alone and uncertain-Captain Cutter gives her her first order. It's with a flicker of pride that Serina follows it: "Take us out, Serina."

As the Spirit of Fire hums to life for the first time under Serina's control, she laughs. Thoreau looks at her curiously; she smiles widely, and laughs again.

"I'm flying, Thoreau!"

The stars spread out before her as the ship moves. It's the first she's seen of space, this close, and it's more beautiful than she ever could have imagined.

And it's hers.

* * *

Daemons featured:

Serina and Thoreau, grey heron

James Cutter and Katerina, okapi


End file.
